


Unrequited

by Destina



Category: Ben-Hur (1959)
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Post-Canon, Regret, Suffering, Suicidal Thoughts, Yuletide Treat, mentions of Judah Ben-Hur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: The rabble come with platitudes for the Tribune Messala, or what’s left of him.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 20
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Unrequited

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlterEgon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlterEgon/gifts).



The rabble come with platitudes for the Tribune Messala, or what's left of him. Because they are uncertain of his status, they must make the pilgrimage, or live with the consequence should he be restored to glory. Brilliant in the arena, some say, though they cannot meet his eyes, nor look at the shattered wreck of his body. A fine effort! Too bad about the horses, though. Too bad about...everything. 

So many eloquent pauses, full of less flattering words they have said in other places, to other people. Conversations he must imagine, because as he rots under the ministrations of the physicians, he is shut out from all the pleasantries of privileged gossip. 

What they say to others, he knows, is -- _did you see how magnificent Young Arrius was as he rode!_ and _The injuries are hideous, really, but what skill can one expect from a boy who spent his childhood hunting with Judeans?_ Past victories have ceased to matter. He is nothing but his most recent race, and so he is nothing. And perhaps worst of all, and truest -- _I pity him. He'll die or return to Rome in disgrace; it matters not._

But Messala won't die. He isn't that lucky. He hasn't earned the right. Instead he bleeds and heals, crooked and misshapen, like an old tree ready to be sacrificed for kindling. Anything for the fires of Rome, though he will never feel the warmth of her love and glory again. 

He takes a cup of wine, and another, and another. The swill does not dull his senses nearly enough; nor does it soothe his restless mind, which will not be still. It seeks its own suffering, running a private race to find the most excruciating moment of his service in this accursed province, and display it for him with agonizing clarity. 

For a time, he cannot push his mind beyond the race, or the moment of his defeat. He relives it all daily: the hubris that made him blind to his inevitable loss; the hate which poisoned his heart and hastened the whip into his hand; and the love which seethed and twisted within him, so overgrown with thorns he could no longer find it in the garden. 

With time, that agony fades, and he can cast his mind back, and back, and back further still - past the mistakes he'd been too Roman to admit. Past the pain he'd inflicted on Miriam and sweet Tirzah. Past...no, never past Judah. It is there his memory always stutters to a halt, circling a carefree moment from their childhood. It was always the two of them, arm in arm, troubling themselves not at all about the opinions of others. 

He had forgotten, somehow, that the boy of his memory was the man who bent near to watch him die. Or had he forgotten, truly? His final message to his old friend, delivered like a spear to the heart, destined to keep hate alive and eternal in Judah's soul - it was information only Messala could provide. A gift of knowledge, cloaked as vengeance. He had known what effect it would have, but even now, he could not say for certain which emotion had flared more brightly within him as he delivered the blow - hate, or regret. 

The rabble speak, but Messala doesn't listen. He turns a half-lidded stare to the wall and moves his arms and wilted legs, turns his neck sharply so the agony will scream through him. A reminder that defeat was born years before it was enacted, at the whim of the gods, who removed their sheltering hand to make way for a more powerful enemy. 

Eventually, they stop coming, and Messala neither notices, nor cares. What use is time, when to steal more of it cannot change the course of his days? 

He has the horses that lived, and the ones he never raced, sold to the highest bidder. Without asking, he knows who that man is. 

"Never speak of it," he tells Drusus, who sets the purse of coin within reach of Messala's hand, so that he might curl his fingers around it and hold fast. 

He does not touch it. 

In the morning, it is gone; Drusus will use it to buy medicine Messala will not take, and food he cannot taste. It is fitting. What keeps him alive now is the understanding that Judah will hate him all the days of his life. He could ask for nothing more. 

*

Rome has never had much use for her ruined children. Even those who spent their days dreaming of her, fighting for her, and devoting their lives to her - with hindsight, Messala can see their love was always unrequited. He thinks of the cities he destroyed, and the glittering baubles he lifted from the ashes. All his captured treasure was scorched at the edges, the charred remnants of something much more beautiful. This was what he offered to Rome: ash and death, disguised as spoils. 

Now he is the remnant, and Rome has no use for what is already conquered. She exists for war, for what may be subjugated to her laws and literature and art. 

She does not care for rubble and ash. She cares even less for the stench of defeat.

*

There is a dagger of the finest craftsmanship, kept in the ornamental box with which it was presented. In the early days, his servants would remove it in stealth for fear of the way his eye fell upon it, and he would have them flogged for touching it. Loyal Drusus, who remains at his side even though he is but a shell unworthy of service, would have thrown it in the sea - but having it near calms the nightmares. Its presence makes every bone feel whole, mended where it had splintered. 

He removes it from the box some nights, and thinks about drawing it slowly across his throat. What good is a Roman who cannot ride, who cannot fight or hunt? A man who cannot lead his troops? The jackals come for the wounded; the easy kill attracts them. He is only carrion fodder, without illusions. Soon enough he will be carried to a conveyance, and they will take him without ceremony over dusty roads to a nameless place where he will end his days in shadow and shame. These are the riches and rewards he has won through his service. 

Sleeping with the dagger close becomes habit, and then necessity. It's a fine thing, sleek and dangerous. Like Messala used to be, but with more grace and dignity. It will not break into tiny shards at the pressure of an indifferent hand; it will not crack if the user fails to adore it. 

When he presses his hand against the hilt, he can feel the imprint of Judah's hand, invisible but ever-present. If he is destined to be haunted, let this be the way. Or perhaps Messala will do the haunting. He's earned the right. 

Spirits walk the earth in torment, though, and Messala will never walk again, so that avenue is closed to him, as so many are. There's such irony in it; he gasps a bitter laugh, and draws the blade across his gnarled thigh. A test, perhaps. To see if the blade is sharp. To see if he still has blood left to bleed. 

There's not much left in the wake of the blade, just a thin curl of crimson across his wasted skin. He's strangely disappointed. 

Someday he will sleep with the knife nestled secure inside his breast. But not this day. This day, he will feast upon the distant memory of love; in turn, hate will devour his heart, much as the old she-wolf called Rome feasts upon her prey, gnawing until there is ample space for the blade.


End file.
